Outsinging the Birds
by A Million Raindrops
Summary: Sometimes warm dreams assuage a cold reality. Mako and his dad!


**A/N:** Hello!

Hello! So, yesterday being the eve of my AP English test, I naturally stayed up past midnight to write a fanfiction idea that hit me like a ton of bricks!

I didn't actually know where I was going with this— I just heard that Mako's voice actor could sing and I got feelings and now a month later this pops up. I edited it a bit after initially writing it, and I gave myself feelings, so I hope you enjoy!

P.S.: I imagine Mako's dad as a total babe with a heart of gold. Oh, kill me now.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Legend of Korra or affiliate myself with its creators in any way. Yet.

Mako could always hold a tune.

When he was young, he sang alongside the blue birds that decorated a tree's branch, or the edges of a building's drainage pipes, or the windowsill of his bedroom. Especially fascinated by the sing-song of and twitters of the graceful butterfly jays, Mako spent most of his time listening to and imitating their melodies, starting a sort of competition between him and the amused creatures above. On sunny days he made his way under the weeping willow tree where most of the jays gathered, its curved emerald branches speckled here and there by the little cerulean birds.

His voice was sweet and light and lovely, riding the breeze that tickled his cheeks and tousled his hair on bright afternoons at the Republic City Park. As spring bloomed, patrons of the park heard him and smiled, content with the peaceful hums and harmonies that floated lazily among the trees.

Once, Mako was five and imitating a particularly flock of the jays' treetop concerto. Under the speckled shade, his gentle voice went up and down and up again in a simple melody of "ah"s and "oh"s— Mako didn't bother making up any words. They only made things complicated, he thought, and might confuse the birds, considering he didn't speak butterflyjay. After a few minutes, a few of the tiny cerulean birds had silenced their own songs in favor of listening to the little boy below them, only a few still left to their own chirping. Mako smiled boyishly as he continued, feeling triumphant about finally gaining ground in his friendly competition with blue creatures. He took a deep breath, testing the limits of the highest and longest "ah" he could belt, when he heard a branch snap only a few feet away from him. Mako saw him out of the corner of his eye; the note caught in his throat, his lips clamped shut, and his cheeks burned scarlet. His dad, lumbering over to him with his broad shoulders and deep voice and gruffy demeanor— would he punish him for uttering such a… _girl_ sound? Mako looked down at his little feet, fiddling with his rumpled shirt's collar as his eyes began to swell with shiny tears. He sniffed slightly. He watched his father's feet draw nearer until they stopped a foot away from Mako, a gentle shadow washing over his little body. Mako trembled slightly, feeling pressure mount behind his eyes, and waited.

And waited.

After about twenty seconds, Mako conjured enough courage to slowly tilt his heads upwards, his amber irises shiny with tears.

His father had his gloved hands on his knees, looking at Mako ever so gently, the gold of his eyes soothing and warm, two little suns all their own. A smile, its own radiance rivaling the brilliance above it, stretched across his face, crinkling the edges of his eyes. A breeze caressed his hair, short and spiky in the front and black as night. His scarf fluttered gently against him, vivid crimson against the backdrop of a blue and fluttering green branches. Awestruck, Mako finally felt warm trails make their way down his round cheeks.

"M-mako? Why are you blubbering like that all of a sudden?" his father rumbled, his face falling.

"W-w-wuh."

Mako's father took his hands off his knees in favor of letting then hover uncertainly above Mako, unsure of what had just happened. "Hey, kiddo, don't cry. You were singing before…"

"I-I tawt…" Mako hiccuped before continuing, his tiny chest shuddering. "I tawt you were gonna say I was a bad boy for s-singing!" he wailed. Mako's father hesitated only a moment, blinking in confusion, before breaking out in hearty laughter, a deep rumble that reminded Mako of low brass bells. His father finally reached out and ruffled Mako's hair lovingly, a few chuckles still escaping him. He crouched down, meeting Mako's wet eyes and trembling, pouting mouth.

"Mako, I would never scold you for that," he said, his smile returning. "It's a wonderful gift, to sing." He kept smoothing back Mako's hair as he talked, noticing the way it calmed him down. "You shouldn't be ashamed, son. And besides, you're so good at it!"

Mako's eyes widened, sparkling with the little pockets of light that broke through the tree's branches.

"R-really?"

"Of course. You're almost as good as your old man."

"You can sing, too?" Mako gasped.

"Naturally. You sure didn't get it from your mother." At that, his father chuckled to himself. Mako's eyes sparked, his prior crisis forgotten. He leaned into his father, reaching up and plopping his hands on either side of his dad's face. "Sing, daddy! Sing!" he chirped. "Sing me a real song— I only know birdy songs!"

"Alright, Ko," his father said, smiling broadly. He reached for his left cheek, cupping Mako's little hand in his own, much larger one. "But first, let's sit against this grand old tree's trunk so the birdies know who's head honcho around here, yeah?" Mako giggled and rubbed his fists on his eyes, clearing away the last of his tears.

So there they sat, Mako's father leaning against the wide base of the old green tree. Mako was atop his father's crossed legs, facing his chest. His father held on to his own knees, his arms a protective wall on either side of Mako. The little boy held on to the soft red scarf for support.

"Keep your hand on my belly, son— right here, right in the middle." Mako let his right hand release the scarf and slowly placed his outstretched palm a little below his the ribcage.

"That's the diaphragm, the thing that lets us use our lungs to breathe. We also use it to sing," he explained.

Mako looked up him in fascination as he lay his small palm against the expanse of his fathers torso, and nodded.

"Diafam."

He felt his father's laugh rumble though his small arm before he promptly cleared his throat. "Now, make sure you feel what I'm doing with my diaphragm, alright? The way you use it affects the way you sound. Now, this song I heard my mother sing, long ago…"

Mako felt his father's diaphragm sink in as breath filled up his lungs to the fullest capacity. Unconsiously, Mako held his breath as well, sucking in a small gulp of air as his father parted his lips.

_There's a wild wind blowing_  
_Down the corner of my street_  
_Every night I bathe in headlights_  
_A glowing _  
_There's a cold war coming_  
_On the radio I heard_  
_Baby, it's a violent world_

The birds, who had long since resumed their merry chirping after Mako had stopped, quieted almost immediately to this new voice, deep and smooth in comparison to Mako's still high-pitched sound. Even the gentle brushing of the willow's leaves ceased, as did the soft whispers of the wind. In fact, to Mako, it seemed the whole world had fallen silent, out of respect—it was only his father in that moment, him and the silent birds and the dancing leaves of the tree and this hauntingly beautiful voice.

_Oh love, don't let me go_  
_Won't you take me where the street lights glow?_  
_I can hear rain coming_  
_I can hear the siren sound_  
_Now my feet won't touch the ground_  
_Now my feet won't touch the ground_

* * *

_Now my feet won't touch the ground…_

Mako's eyes were heavy with warmth as they slowly parted, scattering his dream and leaving only a lingering shadow of a voice he could never forget. Eyes half-lidded, he allowed himself to indulge in this warmth a little longer, holding on to the fading dream. He moved his right thumb and caressed soft material, now aware of the tight grip he held his scarf in.

Deliberately he began to move his body, feeling the rugged surface holding him in a sitting position. Reality trickled back to him in little bursts—he was against the trunk of a tree, not small and teary anymore, but tall and big, under the spots of lights filtering through an orange canopy. He made soft circles in the now rugged material of the scarf as he looked at the leaves of the willow sway in the chilled air. Mako blinked, remembering the lushness of the willow in his dream, the warmth of the years he had long since been forced to leave behind. He shivered.

His father was gone now, even from his dreams, vanished with the cruel flames of a murderer Mako might never find. His hair, his laughter, his easy tone, his easygoing demeanor, his voice… all sacrificed to some unknown oblivion.

He allowed one tear to slip. One warm tear, down his cheek, salty on his lips, a reminder that confirmed he wasn't dreaming. For a while, he listened to the jays above him whistle gently, let the late afternoon sun blanket him. This was him and his father's tree, after all. It had become a roosting spot for the jays and his father after that one time. Mako had refused to sing since his parents had passed. For what had he to sing about in a cruel world he hadn't yet been prepared to face?

For a long while Mako closed his eyes again, absorbing in all of his surroundings hazily, as if contemplating something. He inhaled slowly, feeling cold air chill his lungs, and eventually steel his resolve. It had been ten years.

Regardless, he opened his mouth to sing.

It was raspy, perhaps a little rusty, but deep, melancholy, beautiful.

_I can hear rain coming_  
_Like a serenade of sound_  
_Now my feet won't touch the ground_  
_Now my feet won't touch the ground…_

And the birds above were silent.


End file.
